


When The Game is Afoot

by JacksWild



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, johncroft - Fandom
Genre: His Last Vow Spoilers, Kink, M/M, Military Kink, Plot, Post His Last Vow, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Spoilers, more to come - Freeform, top!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacksWild/pseuds/JacksWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a time when John has come to realize who his friends really are, and those who aren't, who does he stand with? Where does Mycroft and Sherlock fall into this? And how do you have a happy ending when some of the characters are rather scary? And what about Mary? Maybe she isn't all bad, but sometimes we get stuck in situations where we don't see any other way. <br/>This is a work in progress, and has many triggers that I will try to tag before each chapter. :) Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the Other Foot Hits the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Please stay with me on this. I will post trigger warnings before each chapter, here at the top, so make sure to look through just in case. :) Please enjoy, and be nice. It is hard for me to put this out here <3

Chapter 1   
When the Other Foot Hits the Floor.

John wasn’t very pleased. He had had a horrible day at the surgery, he had dealt with 14 cases of half baked flu, 4 cases of broken fingers, toes or in one case a very horribly broken nose, but the last moment, seconds before he was scheduled to leave and head back to the flat for the night, a woman walked in with four infants and a toddler who wasn’t quite able to keep his buggering mouth shut for longer than .5 seconds. After putting a stint on her toddlers finger, and handing her a prescription for a pain-killer for the kid and a well meaning migraine script for her, he left without saying good bye to anyone of the staff; or really even locking his door.

That would be something that he would possibly regret, but he was just so tired. He had started early, and had left almost forty minutes later than he was originally supposed too. He just wanted to get home, snuggle up with the new thriller on the chair-side table, and have a cuppa. 

He walked in, key in the lock, opened the door, tossed his coat on the chair and headed straight for the kitchen. He passed the sitting room, half expecting Mary to be sitting in her chair, the tv running with some book in her hands. But the room was quiet, still and dark. No woman sitting there, no book being read, no noise. It was different, but John was not in the mood to study his surroundings. He wasn’t really in the mood for dealing with anyone or anything. 

He walked up to the stove, and sitting right on top, in the middle of the flat metal surface was his favorite mug. With a piece of paper taped to the rim. Sighing he flipped the switch for the kettle while ripping away the paper, leaning against the cupboards he flipped open the letter, recognizing Mary’s handwriting instantly, his heart rate sped up, just a fraction, but enough to make him start to hesitate. 

 

John,  
I see that you came home and went straight for the tea. How very like you. See if Jim is back then we have a problem. Because well, I shot Sherlock. Really, I know this has been an issue between you and I. And honestly, I was getting tired of dealing with the silent shaming. It really is preposterous that you would think I don’t see through you. I see straight through your little show. You coming and forgiving me at Christmas, your sharing the flat with me, and your silent assent to anything I say.   
But we haven’t been intimate in a while, have we? 

Here is the deal. I know you didn’t read what was on the flash drive. Not because you said so, but because there was nothing on it in the first place. Why would I hand over my past to you and the Brain? How stupid do you really think I am? Pretty bloody stupid, I would wager.   
So here is my problem, Jim is back. If the rumors are true. And surprise surprise, John, I’m not pregnant with your baby! Bet you didn’t see that coming or maybe you did, by this point, who really knows? Attached to the photos on the table are the paternity tests. It wont tell you who the father is, but I bet Sherly will know soon enough.   
He should figure it out, one can bet. And he might even share the news with you. How darling that is, really, him sharing all his deductions with you, so that you feel special and important. It really is darling how he does all the thinking and you do all the doting.   
Bloody waste of your life, really.   
Anyways, I have packed all I need. You wont be seeing me for a while. But then when you do, be in for a special surprise. 

Yours forever,  
M. M.

 

He didn’t hesitate, flipping the stove off, he ran to the table. Took the package off the table top, and flew out of the door. Heading straight for 221B.

He didn’t knock, didn’t ask for permission, noting that there was a hitch in the floor mat but ignoring it all the same. Passing Hudders on the second floor landing, dismissing her tuttering as some foolish form of love or affection. He slammed through the front door of the flat, noting that the room was empty, and then lights on. Noting a sound in the room at the end of the hallway, past the kitchen, he flung through the room, pushing the chair next to the kitchen table out of his way as he barreled down the hallway. Busting through the door, it took him a full minute to assimilate the situation in front of him. 

Before his eyes, there was a man, a stranger tied to the four poster, feet and hands tied to all four corners; sweaty and bloody and his erection hard and high. Naked as a jay. But that wasn’t the final straw. The one that broke the camels back. No that was Sherlock, clad in trousers, and the purple shirt, whip in one hand, and a tube of something in the other.   
"What the buggering, bloody fuck is going on in my life!" John bellowed. Loudly, shouting at the world, shouting at Sherlock, at the stranger on the bed, at the essence of Mary and the whole world crashing in on him.

He slammed the door against the wall, hand flat against the wood other hand against the frame, grasping it tightly against the grain. “FUCK!” he exclaimed. “I quit. I just don’t, I had less stress in fucking Bahrain!” he swirled around, feet poised in military precision, shoving his hand out so hard, that he cracked the glass on the door to the bathroom, stalking to the kitchen.   
Eyes already dilated, and seeing red, he tossed everything from the table to the floor, crashing all of the experiments. His vision blurred, anger seeping into his veins, he was feeling vicious. A feeling he hadn’t felt since that long summer afternoon in Kandahar, when all those people died. Slamming down the paper work in his hand he slid his hands across the table, crashing everything off the table and on to the floor. He picked up some beakers, some vials, looking at them vaguely, before throwing them across the room… missing Sherlock’s head by inches. 

“John! John!” Sherlock roared. Whip still dangling from one hand, a piece of cloth hanging in another. Sherlock watched the catatonic John, anger seething in smaller mans eyes. He watched as John picked up his mug, his favorite mug, holding it in his hands, both hands cradling it gently, before sweeping it back and moving to crash it.  
John hand was grasped tightly behind his head, before he could move the cup down and smash it to bits. 

“John Hamish Watson. You will put the mug down gently. You will calm down, and you will sit down and describe to me just what is going on.” Sherlock whispered in Johns ear. Unwittingly, having his whip poised to punish. Quietly, softly, his moist breath falling in John’s ear, the feeling doing many things but mostly turning the rage into shame and self doubt.   
“Let me go. I wont break the cup.” John held his breath. John sensed, rather than felt Sherlock let go. Finger by finger he felt, as Sherlock released the grasp on his wrist. He sighed.   
John put the mug down gently, taking a moment to breathe, to digest all that had happened in just the past hour. “I have had one hell of a night. Just,” John took a moment. Breathed in and out, counting up to ten and then back down. Using the techniques that he was taught in the psych testing after the explosions in Kandahar. 

“Just, let me be. I will calm down. I don’t think tonight is a cuppa kind of night.” John turned and headed for the Whiskey in the drawer above the stove. “Please, by all means, finish what you were up to in that room. I will still be here.” John didn’t get a glass, just pulled the top off of the Whiskey bottle and walked to his seat, taking a full three swigs before planting his arse firmly in his red cushioned seat. “When you are through, take a look at the papers that are on the floor all over the kitchen. I am sure they will interest you immensely.”   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
To Sherlock, his night had been going really well. He had finally tracked down Victor Trevor. After all these years, the gentleman had finally shown up inside the homeless network, and within hours he had tracked down, followed, apprehended, ate dinner with, and brought back; a man with whom Sherlock had only ever shared a bed with.   
He had been thirsty lately, something that he had realized about himself relatively soon after Watson’s wedding, he was thirsty for the fire in his veins, the blood rush that came from a fix, but after the botched attempt to get Magnussen on his case, he had thrown away all the stash he had had left around the flat, and had gone on search for another kind of fix.   
But it was turning out to be something of a different variety of fix that he was destined to be having tonight. Without word, he turned and walked to his room, walking through the open door, and closing it rather roughly.

“We are through for the night. I am sorry to put you out, but I have matters to attend too, that do not concern you. You have three minutes to dress. I have already placed my number within your phone and I have yours. I will contact you when I desire your presence.” Sherlock set the whip down within the box. Placing the handcuffs, silk ties, and other paraphernalia into and then topping it with a lid. He slid the box underneath the bed, and went about the room, tossing all of Victors things on the bed.

“Sherlock, you cannot be serious.” Vic said, as he sat up, clearly naked, and not giving a damn. “We were getting somewhere. I was getting somewhere.” He sighed, running both of his hands through his unkempt hair, “and then some bloke walks in off of the street, and goes into some sort of a rage and you decide that that is more pressing than this?” Victor spat out the last part, really just angry that he knew Sherlock was done for the night. How he had found Vic in the first place was altogether a mystery. But the fact still remained that even before the short, stocky bloke walked in, Sherlock had shown no signs of arousal. He had just been relieving anger, not really relieving the sexual anxiety that had built up inside of him. Victor could see it in the walk, in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders, in the clenched jaw and tight lips, those signs could be read regularly as stress, but to Victor he also was able to see the tense lines in between the brow, the clenching of fist, and the tapping of the toes, as well as the vague movement of trouser against Sherlock’s crotch as he tried to get some friction against his cock.

“I said to get dressed. I will not say it again, if you are not dressed and out of the flat in two minutes, I will be forced to heave you out of the front door with or without the Westwood suit you wore when you entered the building, do you understand me?” Sherlock asked. It wasn’t so much a question to be answered, as much as it was a statement of authority. He was laying down the ground rules for the moment, and whether Victor was aware of it or not, he was very, very sure he liked the tingle that went down his spine when Sherlock spoke to him like that.   
“Fine, darling. If that is what you wish.” He said, sliding off of the duvet and sashaying to the bathroom door, walking in and turning on the water in the sink. He knew that being naked would throw Sherlock off his stride. And if that was all that Victor could do then he would be okay with that.   
Sherlock turned on his heel, leaving the naked man to do as he wished, he kept a silent count down going in his head, as he walked throughout the kitchen and picked up all of the papers and photographs that were strewn about the floor and table. He took his time, glancing every few seconds or so at the man sitting in John’s chair. A very different man than Sherlock had ever had the opportunity to see. And a man that Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t want to see again. 

He gathered up the last of the paperwork and headed to his chair. Sitting down as silently as possible and contemplating the files worth of papers in his hand. Flipping through them, he came across a sheaf of notes that had Mary’s scrawl on them, he took those and started reading. Within moments he had gone through all of the papers, as well as the paternity test and the photographs. He contemplated all of the data that had been reviewed. Sinking slowly into the depths of his mind palace, seeking out all of the information that he had stored from Mary, as well as Jim and John. He sifted through all the waste, the dribble and the wanton needless things, and searched for DNA records that he had found for all three of the individuals as well as screenings and background checks. 

He cross references all those things with the data in front of him, and deduced a 78% likelihood that Jim could be the father to Mary’s child, but something just wasn’t adding up. The way the letter was worded. Something in the tone of phrase used. It seemed as if she was scared of Moriarty, as much as, he needed her. And something else struck him as plainly obvious; she didn’t want to be in between John and him when Jim did show himself. It seemed to Sherlock that there was something that was just underneath the surface, something just out of reach. Some piece of the puzzle that he was missing.   
But for the moment, he needed to evaluate John.   
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
John had sat there, drinking and watching Sherlock assimilate the information within all the paperwork. It struck John partway through that there were things in that pile that he hadn’t even seen yet, he had just taken the things off the dining room table and ran over to 221B as soon as possible.   
He watched as the brilliant mind that is Sherlock Holmes, sank into himself. Leaving the world around him and going to the palace that held all the known secrets of the universe. John smiled, well all of them accept the information about the sun and the moon and the earth.  
He watched at Sherlock slowly started to come too. Leaving the unknown world of his mind behind and entering back into the world of the living.   
“So, what do you think?” John asked. Voice just a bit slowed. But, nothing more than a buzz ringing in his ears.   
But before Sherlock could say anything, the stranger came out of the room, and walked between Sherlock and John, ignoring John altogether, he leaned over and kissed Sherlock thoroughly, As well as licking a small trail down the side of Sherlock’s throat before standing back up and clearing his throat.  
“I will be seeing you again, Sherlock. Of that I am certain.” The gentleman said before turning and leaving the room, not once taking note of John, or anything else.  
“Well if that isn’t something to add to the monstrous day that I have already had.” John said, a bit of a scoff in his voice as he swigged the last of the Whiskey into mouth, swishing it back and forth and then swallowing it appreciatively. 

 

“What is that now? Two sexual relationships that you have had in less than 6 months? Must be some sort of a record for you?” John said, making to move. Standing up he could feel the alcohol in his veins, running through them as butter would the bottom of a pan. Gooey and slow. “Guess I’ll be pulling out the Bourbon then. Seems I will be dealing with sexual overtones, lies, and misleading all night.” John exclaimed the last part, teetering over to his left a bit, then his right before correcting himself and turning for the kitchen.  
“John.” Sherlock said, through his steepled fingers. “You will not mention what you saw here tonight. I will not hear you slander me. You have no authority in which to do so, nor do you have the right to assume any such awful things before you have all of the facts. Which is something that I have tried to teach you on many an occasion. So now seems like a good time to instill another fact. I am and have always been a certain type of individual. I take information, break it down, look at all of the patterns, and mark each as important or not. I then slowly construct a scene in which all the pieces either work together or do not. After that I then deduce what can and cannot be the possible reasons for what I see. You will use that knowledge or you will leave.” Sherlock sighed, deep and long through his mouth. Eyes closing in a last ditch effort to calm the boiling rage in his gut. “I am and always have been there for you. Even when I left, that was for you, so the least you can do is treat me with some modicum of respect. Since it seems to me that you came here without a thought to going anywhere else, it seems then that you trust me enough to deal with you issues, but not enough to respect my private life?” he opened his eyes, pinning Johns across the room. “Seems a pity, that not more than a year ago, you said that I was your best friend, but even now you scoff at what you do know and what you may not be able to understand about me? I will review the facts. Go to your room if you wish, or your flat. I will be in touch with you when I have come to some conclusion.” Sherlock stayed where he was.

 

After all, John had just been dismissed. Cleanly, clearly and succinctly. 

***


	2. When the World Breaks Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is starting to show her true colors, and John and Sherlock finally talk it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shouldn't be any triggers in this chapter. Nothing major I would guess. I will warn about murder. But to be honest, it's a rather clean killing.

Chapter 2:  
When the World Breaks Apart.

“So my question to you is this. If you are willing to move forward, willing to accept the changes in your path, that will get you to your destination. Then are you also willing to stop, if that is what the path does?” The professor laid is book down on his desk. Looking absently at his watch. “Dismissed. Everyone, don’t forget, you’ve got three weeks until your pre-thesis is due. I will not be taking late projects. And it is worth 43% of your total grade.” 

The class started doing what classes will at the end of them, they started a cacophony of noises, from speaking, to texting, to gathering their belongings and heading for the door.   
Professor Peter A. Jones, sat at his desk, unhurriedly looking through his work paraphernalia. Taking notes on the workings of Goethe and Vonnegut, and comparing them to the course matter at hand for his Criminal Literature 301 class. Writing detailed notes on the occurrences in which a man or woman was publically shamed for being intelligent, verses those people committing a crime against humanity. 

“Staying later again, are we?” a figure said from the shadows at the top of the stadium seating.

“I guess I am, and what is it to you?” Professor Jones, replied easily. After all, he had been confronted by many a student after hours in his career. 

“Not even going to inquire about who I am or what I am doing here?” the bodiless voice, mocked rather jovially. 

“No need, come out of the shadows. There is no concern here, you can speak to me about whatever is on your mind. Are you here about a paper that is due?” The professor, set down his paperwork and leaned back against the chair. Placing one foot across the knee of his other leg. “Or are you concerned about a grade you’ve received?” 

“Oh you are a darling,” the gentleman stepped out of the shadows and started the decent to the bottom of the classroom to where the professor sat. 

“You are not one of my students.” The professor stated with surety. “I would recognize you.” He smiled, “So a parent then? Or a board member?” 

“Neither, but you are getting much closer.” The man took a seat at the table directly across from the professor putting a leather briefcase on the top. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. And I am here to offer you a rather outlandish opportunity to use your talents and intelligence for the great good of Queen and Country.” 

Peter, was taken aback, he had pictured a great many things that this stranger would say, but what he did say, differed from anything that he had thought. 

“Excuse me?” he muttered rather to himself than for the pleasure of the man. “I don’t really understand.” He paused. “To clarify, I do understand what you are saying, in that I understand your tone and dialect. I however do not understand what talents or help I could offer, well, for my Queen.” He said, now alert and leaning forward, his hands curled around one another in an attempt to hide his tendency to twitter about, when nervous.

“How about I give you some information, and then you can make your decision?” Mycroft stated. He opened up his Harry Winston briefcase, and took out several different manila folders. “I am a mid level government official, who needs a rather different sort of help than, say, MI6, can provide.” He paused, more for effect than anything else. “We have a current situation, one in which I believe you can offer your incredible knowledge, towards.” Mycroft set apart all of the folders, three in total, setting one atop in particular. “You will, of course, be paid rather handsomely for your time. As well as given any assistance that you may require.” Mycroft was watching the professor like a hawk, and noticed the tell tale signs of a fidgety man “No need to be nervous. Here, how about I explain one particular situation, and see what you think?” he didn’t wait for a response. 

Opening one of the folders, he took out a picture of a woman. “This is Mary Morstan previously Mary Moran; currently Mary Watson, we have no known aliases for her, but she has a rather sordid past. Or, at least from what we can distinguish. She is primarily a player in low level mercenary killings for the States. But she has recently decided to, well ‘quit her old ways’ as it were.” He paused to pick up another photo, this time of her being pregnant. “But here is the question. Why would a woman, who is by all accounts, trying to get her life in order, be so very scared of one of the nations biggest Villains’? Three days ago, she picked up all of her belongings and left her husband, with a note implicating a connection to this villain. But here is the problem, when my team searches for any information about her, all we were able to come up with, and this is where your expertise comes into account; was that she was a scientist, working for MIT in Boston, Massachusetts approximately 8 years ago. She supposedly found a critical chemical that could be used in forcing someone to tell the truth. She had in reality created, a Truth Serum. But she was mocked, and was not allowed to bring her creation to light. While she was forced out of her post in MIT, three other scientists and professors died mysteriously. She then became an agent for the CIA.” Mycroft paused for a moment to let all of that digest.

“Now, here is my question to you. If she had actually created a serum that could make people tell the truth, and she had been mocked out of her position, do you think that would cause her to murder? She was by all accounts a decent human being, prior to all of the nonsense.”

Peter relaxed back into his chair, assessing all the information that was given to him. “Well one could always become a murderer or murderess, as it were. Often times, it is all started by humiliation, or some other trigger, which greatly affects the murderer. Most criminals start out in some form or fashion, as a normal human being, there is always a common denominator that ties there past life to there new life.” He unclasped his hands, standing. Walking around the desk, he took up the letter that was sitting underneath the two photographs that the MI6 agent had handed him. “She seems to be relatively well balanced, but you are correct in assuming that there is a fear lying just underneath. I see here that she is referring to a ‘Jim’. If I were to assert a moment of observation, I would go so far as to assume that she is talking about James Moriarty. If that is the case, then by all rights she has everything to fear, if she has had anything to do with him or his ilk.” Peter paused, and took notice of a memo underneath the letter, picking up to examine the contents. “She really left all of this with her husband? And called her husbands friend, the Brain? Then I am also to assume that we are talking largely about Sherlock Holmes, to which you would be his brother.” Peter smiled, “Well Mr. Holmes, I don’t know if I can truly be of assistance, but I shall try valiantly to do what I can.” He put his hand out, and was met with a formal shake. 

“Then you will gather all of your things, and come with me. We will discuss all of the particulars on the ride back to my building. You will get started immediately. We have already got someone to replace you here in the interim, ready and waiting, for you to say if you would assist or not.” Mycroft stood up and took all the documents that were spread in front of him, placing them rather gently in his case. “I will be waiting with two guards, just outside your door. Do hurry, this is a matter of utmost urgency.” He strode outside of the room, leaving Peter Jones, so take a moment to breathe. Watching as Mycroft left the room, he leaned back for just a moment against his desk. Taking everything that had just transpired, into observation.

“See, here is the issue. People just don’t understand.” Peter’s head shot up, a woman’s voice coming from the top right corner of the room, just inside the fire exit.

“They always assume that when a woman is pregnant, she is unable to continue in her position. But sadly how wrong they are.” Mary brought up her pistol, wrapped rather sexily in a silencer, “I am sorry, you were really getting me pegged all too well.” And she shot him, making no more noise than a tin penny hitting the floor. He fell to his knees, hands reaching up to grab at his heart, where the bullet had pierced rather cleanly straight through. “You will die knowing that you were a martyr for the damned ‘Queen and Country’.” 

And then she was gone, leaving the Professor bloody and dead in front of his desk, eyes wide with shock, and hand holding a picture of her face. He wouldn’t be found until twenty minutes later, well after Mary had left, and after Peters’ heart had beat its last beat.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock was lying, back against the room, on the worn and beaten couch; his mind already a solid fortitude of questions and answers. Just none dealing with Moriarty or Mary and a bunch however dealing with John and Victor. 

Not long after he had dismissed John from the flat a few days before, he had noticed John acting rather stand offish. He hadn’t said anything, rather, had chose not to say anything, as feelings and the such were just not his thing. But it was getting tiresome. Finally, he had tried to ask about Mary, when John went off the wall and threw a plate of toast and jam on the floor. Walking from the room, and out of the flat. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why John was acting so petulant. He was doing nothing but trying to help his situation.

And then there was Victor, with whom he had made a massive blunder, in giving his number to the bloke. He had by all means been clear, when telling Vic that he would contact him when he wished. Not the other way around. And here he was, 63 texts later, and he was exhausted. The whole ordeal was all a rather tiresome blur. 

Hearing footsteps coming up the stairwell, he listened, noting instantly that they were those of John. Sherlock waited for all of four seconds, taking in all of the past four days worth of rubbish feelings, and decided that he would be better suited to not dealing with all of the nonsense, taking up to his feet, and running, with little dignity to his room. Closing the door silently, having never been heard in the entire ordeal.

“Yes, I understand. Mycroft. I don’t know!” John entered the flat, expecting to see Sherlock sulking on the couch. But finding that the room was utterly empty.   
I would tell you if I knew Myc, but I don’t.” he said, slipping and calling Mycroft a name he only thought in his head when thinking about the elder Holmes brother. 

“She left the flat, she left the note, you now have in your possession. She left me! She is pregnant, when a child! Mycroft, if I could give you any information I would. I promise you. I give you every part of my word that I would say anything if I knew. But she was as much a mystery to me, as you are.” John rubbed his hand against his eyes, collapsing into his chair. 

“Yes, yes I will tell you the moment I hear from her.” He closed his eyes listening with rapt attention. “Myc,” he paused. “Yes, I am sorry. Mycroft. How about we set an appointment to meet tomorrow morning. We can talk about everything, set you and Sherlock and me together, maybe with Lestrade, and we can go over everything. Maybe there is something we’ve, I’ve missed.” He said. Exasperation, filling his voice. 

“Yes, fine. Goodnight. Myc.” He said, with a moment of rebellion against the older and much more aggravating Holmes. 

He took a moment to look about the room, not really looking at or for anything in particular, but just spacing out and taking a moment to calm his over active mind. He had sold the flat that he had shared with Mary, back to the lot owners. Which he helped tremendously in getting back on track. He had spent the last two days moving everything back into his room upstairs, or putting everything in storage. What was Mary’s instantly went to the rubbish, or the giveaways. He wanted nothing to do with it. He was waiting for the settlement on the flat to land in his account, now, so that he didn’t have to worry so much about his not working at the surgery. He had to take a leave of absence, since his mind wasn’t about to stay with his patients, which made him a rather useless MD. 

What he really wanted was for some semblance of normality. Back when it was just Sherlock and him, solving crimes, and saving lives. He wanted to have a reason to smile again. He wanted to know that his (or whose ever) baby was safe. He wanted to not have to worry so damn much about everything. 

“I wish I could talk to you again Sherlock. I damn well wish I could just talk to you again.” John said aloud to the empty room, resting his head back against the cushion of the chair. He was asleep in almost seconds. The stress of the last several days finally taking hold and sinking him into a limitless sleep.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock came out of his room, quietly, a little unsure of his footing. What he should say, how he should say it. Finally realizing that maybe there was something he was missing in this whole, “being someone’s best friend” thing. He went over to the kettle to start it boiling. John would like tea. Right? And then looked out into the living room, and was instantly rewarded with a thump in his heart, John was asleep in his chair. Head gone wonky and to the left, likely to leave a crick that would be painful tomorrow if not stopped soon. He waited rather patiently for the kettle to boil, he was working on patients, he was well aware that, that was something that he lacked, and that it was a character flaw. He was working on his many character flaws. 

The kettle started to hiss, leading into its high pitched wale, and Sherlock went about the task of making tea. He got the sugar and the milk out, and brought it all to the table next to John’s chair. But he didn’t have the heart to wake him up. Instead he sat down and watched his lonely soldier, sleeping fitfully in his chair. 

How many times had Sherlock thought of John while he was off fighting the good fight? How many times had he sat down in a chair and imagined an old, red and worn chair sitting across from him. Empty some nights, but with John in them others. He had imagined John helping him, guiding him, giving him absolution on those long hard cold nights after killing countless men. He had imagined John telling him how brilliant he was, praising Sherlock for the work that he was doing, but towards the end, he had started to imagine a completely different John. A John that hated what Sherlock was doing, that was disgusted by it, that wasn’t fooled by the art of what Sherlock did, but was infuriated by it. It was the John that Sherlock had brought back with him, in his mind palace. And it was the John that he had to remember didn’t really exist. 

Except, well maybe it did. Not to the extremity of hatred and uncaring, but all the same John had this anger inside him that Sherlock had never before witnessed. He hadn’t known John to be capable of such violence. Even after he had shot the cabbie, he had been relatively jovial.   
Sherlock was taken out of his thoughts when John started to moan in his sleep. He was moving slightly, but the words were muffed. Sherlock strained to hear, listening with all 5 of his senses. 

“Mar…. Mary… no, please” John moaned deeply, flipping his head from the left to the right and back again. His feet curling in on his body and his muscles tightening.

“Please…. No, no, no.” He kept repeating it. Sherlock was about to lean forward and wake John when the sleeping man yelled, “SHERLOCK!” loudly, so much so that he jolted awake. Breathing heavily, sweat just barely glistening on his forehead and a tear sliding down his cheek. 

John was vaguely disoriented. Not that he hadn’t had that dream before, but more that he was awake, and sitting in the sitting room of the flat in 221B; and Sherlock was sitting in front of him, staring intently into his face. He took measure of his heart rate, his muscles, and the small pain in the right side of his neck, more associated with sleeping wrong than with anything else. 

“How long have you been sitting there?” John asked, groggily. 

“Not long, a few minutes.” Sherlock gestured to the tea, sitting beside John. It hadn’t gone cold just yet, but was far from being hot. “I made you some tea, but was unclear on whether I should wake you or not.” He said. More to himself than to John who was sitting there, rather dumbly looking into the tea cup. 

“Do you have nightmares often? I thought that you had stopped dreaming about the war?” Sherlock said. He had immediately decided to ignore what he had heard, and wait on whether John would want to communicate or not. This was John’s area of pain, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about it. 

“I,” John started. But stopped. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to talk about it either. He had been sure he had yelled Sherlock’s name as he had woken up, but Sherlock hadn’t mentioned that. So John was confused. “I haven’t dreamed of the war in some time.” John decided, it was noncommittal. But it was also the truth.

“Look Sherlock,” he paused, bringing his hand up to his eyes and rubbing them, sliding it back to cup the crown of his head. “I am sorry for being a right arse the last few days. Been a pisser they have.” He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. “But you don’t deserve me, being a buggering fuck to you.” He smiled, only partially, but it was endearing to Sherlock all the same. “I came to you as soon as I read the letter. And well, maybe I was a bit upset with the fact that she was right on some accounts. Maybe I am a bit of a useless twat. I just follow you around, praising you like some love sick dog. And you know what?” John asked, more to the world than to Sherlock. “I like it. I like seeing you work. And I bloody well missed it when you were gone.” John slapped both his knees, standing up and pacing to the other side of the room and back. “I missed you so much. You stupid cock. I would have died had it not been for Mary. And then to find out that she is some psychopath, well it messes with a man. How do I explain to myself that I went from loving a man who is a sociopath to loving a woman who is a murderess?” John stopped, only realizing what he had said. And immediately dealing with the utter truth of it. 

“I love you, you bloody idiot. I cannot think of the time when you were gone, because I was a different man. I was a shadow, a half of the man who I wanted to be. I couldn’t even get myself to carry on your legacy. I just left that part of my life behind, because why try to continue a journey, when the person who you were supposed to be sharing that journey with, is well, dead?” John stopped pacing. Looking away from Sherlock, at the place in the wall where the smiling face had once been. 

“I miss being your blogger, and your friend. And I bloody well miss being able to talk to you about anything, whether you listened to me or not.” He sighed. So very sure that Sherlock had gone back into his head, and hadn’t heard a fraction of what he had just said.

“You are wrong.” Sherlock whispered. 

“What?” John turned around, arms crossed in an unconscious desire to hold it all in.

“You are wrong.” Sherlock repeated. “When I was gone. I looked out for you. I took all the information that I could to make sure that you were okay. You did carry on my legacy. Maybe you didn’t fight crime and solve mysteries. And lets be honest, I’m glad you hadn’t because you would have buggered it all up.” He paused a moment and smiled with John. A break in the pressure. “But you went about your life. You carried on my legacy, because my legacy was your life. My goal, my end game was to see you safe. And you did that. You stayed safe. Well, as safe as Mary would allow I would guess. But the point is, is that you got on. You worked and lived and dated and carried on. “ Sherlock stopped. Absently rubbing at his heart in his chest. “And that was all I wanted.”

“I don’t understand. Why is that what you wanted?” John sat down on the table in front of the couch, staring at Sherlock across the room, but afraid to get closer to him, for crossing the divide was more than a physical on, but also a mental and emotional one. 

“When I died, I did so, because it was the only way.” A pause. “I know that we’ve talked about this and that it is hard for you to understand, but I had gone through all of the possibilities. I had measured out whether letting you know, or letting you live was more important. And you living was more important than anything.” Sherlock scoffed. “You hate me, for the only thing in my life that I ever did right.” 

“Sherlock,” John interrupted. “I don’t not know what I feel. Of that I am certain. But what I also know, is that I don’t not, in any way, hate you.” He sighed again. “I just don’t understand. Why couldn’t you trust me? Why couldn’t I help you?” 

“Because it wasn’t your fight. Because I did, and do trust you. Because I trusted you to live!” Sherlock flew out of his chair, all kinetic energy and flair. “I trusted you to be alive. To live! Why can’t you see that? Had you known what was truly happening, could you have lived? Could you have preformed nearly as admirably? No! I didn’t want an actor playing a broken man, I needed a man broken. And you were.” Sherlock whirled around, staring holes into John.

“And you know what, John? I broke too…. I killed so many people.” Sherlock threw a fist out at the mirror above the fireplace and shattered it, “Sometimes I fear that, that is what Moriarty’s ultimate endgame was. To change me, from helping, to murdering. Because that is all I fucking did.” He turned slowly to look at John, the space between them, feeling less like feet and more like eons. “And I know that you have every right to hate me for that.”

“But, Sherlock,” John got up, breaching the span, entering the comfort zone surrounding Sherlock. “I don’t hate you. I don’t, you bloody idiot. I may not be able to understand why you left. But of anyone you know, I do understand what you are feeling.” John reached out, laying a hand on Sherlock’s upper arm, taking note of the slight flinch. “I have killed. I was a Doctor in the Army. And I killed. I was put into impossible situations, where all I wanted to do was heal people, and all I was able to do was kill. And I live with that every day. Every bloody day.” John put his other hand up and grasped Sherlock’s other arm. 

“We will be okay. I guess we’ve just got to stop holding all this shit bottled up.” John let loose of Sherlock and took a more comfortable step back. “Now can we discuss the real case that is actually at hand?”

The look of utter relief on Sherlock’s face was so complete that John had to chuckle. 

“Yes. So…” Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “Hold, on.” 

“Yes, Mycroft.” 

John watched as Sherlock’s face went from expression to expression. 

“Yes. Right away. Where? Tonight? Fine. Yes. We will be there within the hour.”

Sherlock hung up and looked at John. 

“Guess we are staying at Mycroft’s for a bit. Seems Mary has already started killing.”

***


	3. Coming Out of the Cupboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of the rats are coming out of the wood work. And John can't help but be thrown back into his old ways of military dominance. Sherlock is finding himself rather lacking in his ability to think through all of the issues at hand, for those emotions are stirring up quickly.

Chapter 3  
Coming out of the Cupboard

John packed rather quickly, not because he was concerned; he actually lacked a rather deep or personal concern about the matter all together at the moment. No, he was just a quick gatherer, possibly a left over from the military, or maybe just a personal trait. His mind was in another place. He was going through all the information that he personally had gathered on Mary. Whether it was through their personal relationship, or things that he had learned at work, he was just trying to process everything.

“Aye! Sherlock!” John yelled down the stairs, while rolling his shirts into proper wraps and tucking in his socks and pants in the side pocket of the bag. 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock replied easily. He didn’t need to gather much, he had a full wardrobe at Mycroft’s home, with any and all the bits that he needed. So really he just had to bring his person, his Belstaff, and some personal items. 

“I was just thinking, we should stop by the A&E. I have files on all of the Nurses that applied to the Surgery when I was Head M.D. There must be something there on Mary.” John walked across the room, opening a drawer that he had added to the bottom of the wardrobe. Pulling out a .9mm Smith and Wesson, a Ruger Mark 3 semiautomatic rimfire, as well as 5 clips for the smith and 6 for the ruger. He turned around and threw his bag off the top of the mattress. Flipping it over he tore back the adhesive strip and took out his Mossberg 715T Tactical Semiautomatic Rifle. Along with 8 clips worth of ammunition.

“Had I known you had an arsenal, I wouldn’t have worried about whether you brought your gun with you where you went.” Sherlock said, rather impressed, but also a bit overwhelmed. He had never been a good shot, not really, though he had wanted to be, he never had the patients to point aim and shoot. 

“Don’t worry, mate.” John smiled, a bit mischievously. “I know that you are well rounded with the martial arts and all of that, so I went about on Saturday and found you this.” He turned around, pulled his bedside table back from the wall, and took out a Ka-Bar Bull Dozier, 13 inch combat knife. “Ka-Bar, good maker. It will last you years, good combat knife. You can throw it, should be evenly weighted, which would make it a decent throwing knife, as well as length, which should help with hand to hand combat, it will give you an edge.” John handed it over to Sherlock, taking up his weapons pack and packing everything into it that was left. 

“Alright, I’m ready.” John stopped, standing in the middle of the room, with a bag full of clothing in one hand and a pack full of weapons in the other, a rather grim smile on his face. 

“John, I…” Sherlock started.

Suddenly there was a large explosion, a crash, and bang. The glass from both windows in John’s room, were exploded through. And the wall bridging the gap between the two took a beating as well. 

John landed forward on Sherlock cushioning Sherlock’s body with his, he instantly crawled over Sherlock, dragging him around the door frame and into the stairwell. He pulled out his .9mil and took aim over Sherlock.

“John, John are you okay?” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Yes, yes. Get it together Holmes.” John took up the knife that he had just handed to Sherlock and gave it to him. Flipping it over in his hand to give it hilt first. “I need you awake, Holmes.” John could feel the military mentality slipping forward. 

“John, my name is Sherlo—“ 

“I bloody know your name. Get your knife. Be at the ready.” John said forcefully, hushing the brilliant man by putting a hand over his mouth. 

John listened intently. For any noise. He needed to get down and check on Mrs. Hudson, but he needed to know if this was an ambush or not. John whirled the top half of his body around, towering over Sherlock’s form, who had finally had the sense to take his knife out and was in a sitting lotus form. 

“I will go down 1 flight of stairs,” John whispered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, but not loud enough to be heard anywhere else. “If the coast is clear, you are to go down and into the sitting room. Get whatever you need. Head to your bed room, there is a roof just on the other side of your window. Jump out and get down to the back alley if it is safe. I am going to check or get Mrs. Hudson.” John didn’t wait for Sherlock to respond. He simply crouched down and went to the top of the stairs, leaning forward to see what may be waiting. 

Seeing nothing, he went down three steps in hurried succession and then stopped, listening, waiting, patiently. While still hearing nothing, he went down another three, repeating the process until he was down the whole set. He checked the whole of the floor, and then whistled twice for Sherlock to come down and do as he said. He then repeated the process down to Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. 

Sherlock heard the whistle, and immediately jumped to action. He got out of crouching lotus, and went forward, hurridly going down the stairs, keeping all of his senses, acute, while using as little weight on the balls of his feet as possible. To anyone who was just listening, he wouldn’t have been heard; he stuck to the shadows so well, that to anyone looking he wouldn’t have been seen. He got to the living room, and went straight over to the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace, and took The Adventures of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, away from the wall, and behind them took out a long slender wooden box. Relatively unscathed. He opened it up and took our four silver balls, that had strings coming out from all the holes on the outer rim. He took the box and put it and what was left in John’s pack and then went to his room, closing the door when he was in. And searching through his wardrobe, finding another box, this one squat and square. He flipped the catch on it and took out four matching balls made of gold. He shut the box and put it and the rest of its contents in Johns bag. 

He went over to his bed and took all eight balls and laid them out gently. Then taking one silver ball apart he took one gold ball apart, putting them together, twisting a half of silver and a half of gold until they caught with a slink. 

With the strings that were still poking out. He pulled on two that were exactly opposite of one another, until he heard a tiny Pop. He then, repeated the process 3 more times until all four balls were done. After he was through, he rolled one to each corner of his room, waiting to make sure that all four were in the correct spot; exactly 10 x 10 from each other. 

He took up his one bag, plus John’s two, and then checked the window, making sure that no one was on the other roof, or underneath. He checked all of the rooftops around the one he’d be jumping on but he was losing light, and wasn’t able to see very far. He pulled the latch and threw all three bags on the other roof, across a 5 foot divide. He hitched up into the window, and jumped, exhilarating in the tiny thrill of the barely there uncertainty. 

He landed safely, taking all three bags, and scoping out all of the streets around the building until he saw what he was looking for. A black Mercedes was parked about a half block from his flat. He watched for John and Mrs. Hudson to come out of the flat, waiting almost 2 minutes, until John came rushing out of the brick façade, with a crumpled Mrs. Hudson in his arms. From where Sherlock was standing, he could see the blood covering her chest and left arm. As well as the left arm hanging more askew than it should have. He took instant action, jumping down the platform for the metal stairs and taking all the luggage with him. He lunged down each flight. Making the ground in less than 30 seconds.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, over the rising cacophony of sirens approaching. 

“Sherlock, thank God.” John said, as he was laying Mrs. Hudson’s body on the concrete, taking a pack off of his shoulder. “I was able to get my M.D. pack, but she is losing too much blood. She must have been at the ground zero point of the explosion. Her face is all a mess. And she has already lost around 2 pints of blood, possibly another—John stopped talking as the HEMS pulled up. “Hold this!” he directed Sherlock, taking his hand and dragging it to the wound just at Mrs. Hudson’s hairline, Sherlock could feel the gash from left to right, measure about 6 inches. And he could tell it went bone deep, which meant possible brain damage. 

He watched as John ran across the road, at the HEMS waving them down. They came to an immediate stop, an EMT jumping out and rushing to him. Sherlock could tell that John was commanding authority; whether he was channeling the Captain of the British Military, or a professional Doctor, Sherlock didn’t know, but he was impressed nonetheless. 

“Sherlock, let me have her.” John directed as he came over, with three EMT’s following, two with a stretcher and 1 with a large kit. “She had four large lacerations, two on her forehead, one of the crown of her scalp, and a fourth that is the least bloody on her forearm. She has lost between 2 – 4 pints of blood and needs a possible transfusion. She was disoriented on sight, then lost consciousness around,” John checked his watch, counting out the minutes down to the very seconds. “4 minutes and 25 seconds ago. Her pulse is threading in and out, as well as what seems to me, a possible stroke. As her face has lost all motion in the left side, lastly, her arm was completely dislocated.” John handed down his MD ID from his pocket, handing it to the EMT crouching down next to the bleeding body. 

“Unfortunately, we cannot come with her to hospital, but we will be there as soon as possible. We believe this explosion to be in direct accordance with a current investigation that we are doing with the Yard. If you have any questions or concerns, you can discuss it with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” John turned, looking over Sherlock, making sure that there were no obvious injuries. “I take it Mycrofts, car is waiting for us somewhere.” He said, putting out a hand to get Sherlock, while also slipping his gun back into its holster in the back of his sweater. 

“Yes. Up the street about 1 block.” Sherlock responded, tossing one of the bags at John, and handing the more delicate of the two to his blogger as well. “We need to get going. Is she going to be alright?” Sherlock asked, direct but not emotional. 

“Yes. With immediate care, she will be fine. Maybe a little less for wear, but she will be mostly fine.” John answered, crisply, while starting down the street, looking for the black vehicle. “There.” He said more to himself than anything else.

“Yes, there.” Sherlock said quietly. He could tell that his blogger was getting emotional. The type of emotional, where there was not enough tea to drink, nor enough mead to consume. He was watching John return to his military self, before his eyes, and was not all together sure that, it was a bad thing. 

 

They climbed into the car, expecting it to be empty, but Mycroft was sitting in the opposite seat.

“Took you long enough. Packed it all?” Mycroft asked rather snooty. 

“Shut your mouth, Mycroft.” John responded. Taking one of his smaller semi auto’s out, and loading it, sitting in his seat, looking out of the windows. “Did you have someone watching the flat? What did they see?” John asked, pointedly calling Mycroft out for his lack of foresight and security. 

“We had four men on your street. None of them saw anything. Which indicates that the bomb has been sitting there for more than 4 days, when my men started watching your building.” Mycroft said, acidly. He didn’t brook any argument generally. And was rather disgusted with himself, for being amused by John’s tenacity. 

“It was a well put together piece. It took out about all of John’s room instantly, which means it had girth. It was able to take out all of the floors relatively easily. Within moments. There was no fire. Which leads me to think that it wasn’t a gas explosion. More of a combustion. And with the damage to the middle level, I would say that it must have originated in the middle of the flat.” Sherlock was talking but mainly just aloud for the effect of hearing the words and working through the morass of information. “Which would indicate someone who had access to the interior for longer than 5 minutes, which I would say would be the least amount of time to rig the bomb, in such a way that I wouldn’t find it. As well as someone who either John or I would feel comfortable leaving alone, or someone who could enter the premises without permission, be undetected, and leave this gift.” Sherlock stopped, going through all of the suspects in his mind. 

“Sherlock, it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to figure out that it was either Moriarty, or Mary. There is no if, there is no but. It was one of them, or both of them working together. Either way, we’ve got to find them.” John’s hand clenched on his weapon. To the Holmes’ boys it was obvious that he was emotional, but to what in particular, they were unaware. To John, he was thinking about the child. He was furious, that Mary would either help with , make, or stash a bomb, while pregnant with a child. His or not, you just do not do that. You do not risk the life of an unborn child, to further your gain. 

 

Mary walked into the warehouse on the outskirts of Sussex, keeping to the shadows instinctively rather than out of necessity. The pain in her abdomen was getting more regular, she knew that she would be giving birth soon, if she had to wager a guess it would be sometime within the next 24 hours. She laid a hand against the lower hanging wall of her stomach and breathed deeply through the contractions. 

She walked to the end of the hall, and peered through the opening, which led to a rather larger hanger bay. She was concerned. She hadn’t seen Jim in two years. She had made sure to follow all of his wishes as closely as possible, but she had gotten pregnant, and in the end, that was something that hadn’t been in the ‘plan’.

“Mary. Darling. Please come in.” She heard Jim’s voice over the Comm system, she fought against rolling her eyes at his eyes everywhere. 

“Yes, Jim Darling.” She said out loud, she was well aware that he could hear her. She walked into the room, with confidence. She knew that he would be aware of her pregnancy, not that there would have been a way to hide it at this point any way. She walked past a large obstruction in the hanger and saw a bed with medical supplies on a low sitting table next to it. 

“Jim, what is this?” she asked, walking closer to the bed. She took in the silk texture of the white and cream-colored sheets, the ornate wrought iron frame, and the claw foot tub just to the left of the medical table. 

“Mary, darling,” Jim said, this time from right behind her, he had always been the only one to slip so easily past all of her training and ears. “I’ve done the math, you should be ready to give birth rather soon.” He said, sliding both of his hands around her stomach from the back. He laid his head on her shoulder in the way a child would a parent. “I can’t have you showing up to a hospital and getting arrested. So I have hired an impeccable team of doctors to help you deliver your child.” He said, splaying his hands against the girth of her stomach. Almost instantly rewarded with a kick from the little one inside. 

“Jim, I am so sorry.” Mary whispered softly. She was scared, but more, she was falling back into the carnal knowledge that she was owned rather completely by this man. He was the only man to know everything about her, from her past to her present to her future, and he never shunned her. He only ever helped her get better at what she was, an assassin.

The contraction came on quickly, almost doubling her over, if it hadn’t been for her iron will, and her fear of showing weakness to Jim. She clenched her teeth, grinding them down, and breathed through each 20-second muscle spasm. 

Jim took note of how well Mary was handling the pain, and was rather pleased with her ability to stay calm even when she knew that he was furious with her. But ultimately he knew that he wouldn’t kill Mary. No, this wasn’t her fault. No, he would kill John. He would find him, and skin him, and he would make his Sherlock watch on, while he pulled the skin from John’s body. And after he would make sweet love to his Mary, his own assassin, in the blood of the only man Sherlock had ever loved.


	4. Trouble this way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally we get to meet Jim again, but I do think he is a bit more messed up then we last remembered. Also, finally some sexualy tension between Mycroft and John. And hmmm, just what is Sherlock hiding from the rest?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHOUT OUT TO mfam FOR HELPING ME BETA THIS STORY. SHE GOT ON BOARD FOR THIS CHAPTER, AND WHO KNOWS, IF SHE CAN STICK IT OUT THEN SHE MAY BE IN FOR THE WHOLE MESSING RIDE:)
> 
> ALSO trigger warning for: Blood. OCD. Homoerotic subtext. Very little drug reference. And Child birth.

Chapter 4  
Trouble this way Comes

 

John woke up in a plush Louis X chair. He didn’t really remember falling asleep the night before, but that wasn’t shocking, as he hadn’t had any intention of sleeping. He had been working throughout the night, on any information that Lestrade could give him, from the last time the Yard had been looking for Moriarty. After 11 pm he had finally given up on learning anything new, since it turned out the Yard hadn’t really had anything useful.

John had taken the opportunity to use all the technology at Mycroft's disposal to do some work of his own. He vaguely remembered contacting his old Chief from the Army, putting out any feelers that he could on some militia information. He would wait patiently for the information to start filtering in. He had also started a chain of informants in Ireland, a place that he remembered Mary wanting to visit, very clearly.

He opened his eyes to the dark room, noticing that neither of the Holmes boys were in the office with him. Sherlock and he had shown up to Mycroft's home a little after 7 pm the previous night, and both had gone their separate ways to accomplish gaining some sort of information. Mycroft hadn’t even entered the home; he had closed the door to the vehicle and had been driven away. Though John did remember him coming home close to 1 am and heading upstairs. That was the last that he had seen of either of the Holmes brothers.

He leaned forward, cracking his neck from side to side, until he was sure that he was sufficiently awake enough to wander through the house for the facilities and the kitchen. After not finding a suitable loo on the first floor he wandered up the stairs, finally taking in the magnitude of the home in which he was currently situated. He smiled, Sherlock was a man of means with a small home in which to live, where as Mycroft was a man of means with a large home in which to show off.

He peeked into several rooms up the left side of the hall, before finding a loo. Taking his time, he splashed cold water on his face, making a promise to shower just as soon as he had something to eat. He peed and then went to leave the toilet when Mycroft walked in from the conjoined door that John had rather assumed was a towel closet.

“John, for God's sake, why are you in my toilet?” Mycroft asked, in a groggy, throat still dry, first thing in the morning sort of way.

“I, well,” John started, but abruptly stopped when he noticed the very clear and visible morning wood that was peeping through the fronts of the pyjamas that Mycroft was wearing.

“I, uh, had to pee.” John responded rather inanely.

“I’m sure you did, but that doesn’t explain why you decided to use my personal facilities when there ware five others in the house.” The Holmes brother walked over to the shower and started the spray. John was sure that that was a sign of dismissal, but he was also really uncomfortable with just leaving when he was acutely aware of just how aroused this particular Holmes brother was upon waking in the morning.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
John had been going through an emotional and sexual crisis when Sherlock seemingly committed suicide. He had realized through months of intense therapy that part of the reason that his best friend's death had affected him as thoroughly as it had, was because he had been in love with the man. It had taken many weeks for the therapist to finally get to one of John’s core issues, which was coming to grips with the fact that John was bisexual.

He had been partially aware of this throughout most of his military career; after all there had been a few occasions in which he had seen a man in his medical chambers and had noticed how his body had reacted to the male form. But he had always dismissed that as something to do with war-time stress; but while living with Sherlock, there had always been something just underneath. Something that was just skimming the surface, a reason that all of his relationships hadn’t worked.

Now that Sherlock was back, something had changed in John. Now he was willing to accept the change in his sexual status, but the pain that Sherlock had put him through, had permanently damaged the love that John had had for the man.

Nevertheless, that didn’t stop him now, from recognizing attraction when he felt it. He smiled rather broadly, at the knowledge that it seemed he was attracted to both Holmes brothers. He leaned back against the door of the loo, and felt it close with a slink behind him, just watching as Mycroft went about his morning routine.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Why are you still inside my bathroom, John?” Mycroft asked while getting his toothbrush ready, having not looked up.

“I’m not altogether sure, Croft.” John said, realizing instantly that he liked the nickname, and he would continue to use it whether Mycroft liked it or not.

“Mycroft, John. It isn’t a hard name.” but John could see that Mycroft had smiled around the toothbrush when the name had been uttered. He had liked it. Which was good, so far as John could tell.

“Still doesn’t explain why you are in here, when you are clearly done with what you were doing.” Mycroft said as he went to spit out the paste and wash his mouth out.  
John just stood there, making himself at home with watching Mycrofts habits. He smiled as he put his hands behind his back and leaned against the door, effectively shutting it, and locking the latch; a small but very visible smile, dawning on his face. He caught himself looking very pointedly at Mycroft's lush arse, jutting out underneath the silk of his pyjamas.

He caught Mycrofts eye and winked, sending the older Holmes, into a fit of coughs.

“John, have you gone mental?” Mycroft asked, acutely aware that his penis was getting more uncomfortable by the second.

“No, Croft, I—“ John was cut off by his cell ringing. “Shit,” he muttered, taking a breath and squeezing both of his hands before reaching in his back pocket to get his phone.

“Johnny Boy. You are so naughty.” John gasped, loudy, and moved his head up a bit too fast, smacking it against the door frame.

“Moriarty.” John said. It was all he could get out.

“Oh, that had to hurt. So Johnny Boy, does Sherly know that you are trying to fuck dear older brother?” Jim asked in a scarily sing-songy voice.

“How do you know what I am doing? Where are you?” John demanded, nearly screaming into the phone.

“Damn, looks like I’ve got to go. Tah-tah, Johnny darling. I am sure we will be seeing much more of each other, really very soon.” The line went dead.

John listened intently for another full minute before hanging up the phone and throwing it across the bathroom, watching it shatter into several large pieces.

“John, was that Moriarty?” Mycroft asked. He had turned off the water in the sink as well as in the shower after hearing John say the man's name.

“Yes.” John answered. He was trying to breathe through all of the stress and anger coursing through his veins, but it was becoming difficult.

“Breathe, John.” Mycroft instructed. He walked forward and took both of Johns’ hands, grasping them firmly. “Count down with me. Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven… Six… Five… Four… Three… Two… One…” Mycroft counted down, slowly, taking a deep breath in and a deep breath out between each number. He could see the tell-tale signs of PTSD etched on John’s face. “Now tell me exactly what he said.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Moriarty liked that he could rile the good doctor so easily. He was a rather good play toy, to ease Jim’s mind when he was under pressure, which he currently was. Mary had gone into labor early in the morning. They had been laying in bed together, she asleep and him on his computer, when she had started moaning and writhing in her sleep. At first he had been furious, her taking his attention from more important matters, but then he noticed the puddle of liquid between her thighs that was getting larger by the second. He gently put his laptop on the bedside table and left the bed. His OCD was running rampant due to the mixture of blood and Mary’s water on his silk pyjamas.

He walked casually to the adjoining chamber, all the while calling in his medical team to be at the warehouse within the hour. When the call was done, he took his time getting put into a respectable fashion for the medical officials. He didn’t need the medical elite to see him in his baby blues.

He walked out of the room approximately forty minutes later, after hearing Mary screaming his name for close to the same amount of time. He brushed of the nonexistent dust on his suit, and strolled over to her bedside, refusing to reach out and touch her filthy, sweat covered body.

“Jim, Jim, I think the baby is coming!” Mary exclaimed, rather stupidly in Jim’s opinion. But he was sure that a, ‘no shit, Sherlock,’ would fall rather lamely flat in this situation.  
“I know, my darling. I’ve already called the medical officials, they should be here momentarily.” He said, steadfastly refusing to touch her outstretched hand. He was disgusted by this whole act of birth. And had rather hoped to never experience the disgusting act in person. 

The loud speaker went off with a shrill screech and Jim smiled down at Mary, “They are here, my sweet. You shall be relieved of your burden, soon.” He crooned, walking out of the hanger and towards the front of the security flat. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Sherlock walked into the Mycroft's home and went straight for the bedroom. He didn’t stop to look in the study, he didn’t look for John or Mycroft, he just went up to his bedroom, shut the door, threw his body on the bed, and delved immediately into his mind palace. He was saturated with information that he had unearthed with the homeless network throughout the night. But mostly he was highly agitated by the anger that he felt in John. He didn’t know how to deal with it, and as a result he was having trouble pushing it out of his mind completely.  
He rolled over to his side, taking his Belstaff off with sharp movements, as well as unbuttoning his shirt and turning to lie back to completely lose himself in the world of his mind. Thoughts and memories filtered through:

\--He was walking the side streets in downtown London, near the Thames. It was cold, but he was steadfastly able to ignore the sensation, because he had to watch for his informant.

\--He found his informant just outside a out grouping of warehouses, just old buildings that had either been forgotten, or were out of season with the colder weather.

\-- He held his left hand out, dropping a wad of German chocolate on the ground. He had needed to deal with the homeless, but he hadn’t wanted to deal with drugs, so he reached out to a different clan of the shelter less.

\--“You can come out, Matter. No one is here; no one followed me; no one will see you.”

\--“But you always do.” Matter slid out of the shadows, wearing an old set of real army fatigues. He reached down and picked up the pack, sliding it handily into his left calf pocket. “It’s up here.”

\--Sherlock followed the army vet about seven blocks up and around the docks to a worn-down warehouse. But looks were deceiving. He could see up-to-date monitoring systems, cameras on every third window, sensors and lighting, as well as seven armed guards at four different entrances.

\-- “And you are sure that this is Moriarty, why?” Sherlock asked. He was relatively sure that there was illegal activity going on in the building. But could see no evidence point directly to the man.

\--“You said to look out for medical teams or official looking persons.” Matter said, directly, and to the point. “There was a HEMS here about two hours ago, as well as two dark vehicles that four distinguished looking men and women came out of.” He stopped cold and slid eerily into the shadows.

\--Sherlock followed, just as easily. They slipped into a crook in the side of an adjacent building. Matter held out a hand. In it was one of the smart phones that Sherlock had bought for his many, well-behaved, informants.

\--Flipping through the pictures he saw that there had assuredly been a HEMS as well as both of the dark sedans. He forwarded all the pictures to his phone, and slid Matter back his. He nodded once to the darkness, knowing that he was seen. And he walked away.—


	5. Just the Right Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks for mfam, for once again beta'ing the beast that is my chapters. She is quick, and really amazing. :)
> 
> Triggers:
> 
> abuse, murder, physcosis, blood, body image, homoerotic pairings.

Chapter 5  
Just The Right Time

 

John laid into the bag; punching it, feeling the power and force ricochet up his arm and through his spine. He reveled in the pain in between his fingers. It had been years since he had boxed, but there was a mighty need in him, and time was just moving in a way that wasn’t working for him. 

Every punch, every motion, was a flashback. And what bothered him the most, was that it wasn’t just the war. He was having all sorts of flashbacks:

\---  
“Mary, I love you. I just am trying hard to work it all out. It takes time.”  
“No John, it doesn’t. You either forgive and forget, or you don’t.”  
\---  
A missile flew by his head, its scream piercing his ear drum. Turning around, seemingly in slow motion, he watched the missile hit its target over 100 yards away. It was the compound housing all of his group.  
\---  
“John, the newspapers, the media, they are right. Tell Lestrade, and Molly, they are right…”  
\---  
John was so young, maybe ten or eleven, and he was just trying to work on his red wagon. He wanted fix the wheels so that they didn't screech and bother Papa. He watched as Harry came out of the house, and he shushed her so that they wouldn't wake Papa from his stupor. But she slipped and crashed into the wagon, causing a loud cacophony of noise. Papa woke up and came outside, fists raised to hit Harry, but John stepped in front of her and took the brunt of the pain. And the beatings didn’t stop. Papa put bruises on him that first time, and many more times after that. But Papa never laid another hand on Harry.  
\---

John punched the bag with all of his might, lost in the thoughts that were clouding his mind. He kept punching until his arms were weak from lost endorphins, and even then he kept punching. He hit as hard as he could; hitting all the foes, all the evil, all the pain, all the fear, pushing them away. He didn't know that he was crying, or that his tears were mixing with his sweat. He looked like a man so lost, a man so lonely. 

Mycroft stood at the entrance to the small gym. He was rather entranced. He’d seen John working out over tha past few days, but he hadn’t seen him with the bag, and he hadn’t seen him this focused. Mycroft was stunned. To him, John had always been an entity, something to own, or control, or ignore. But he was finding it harder and harder to place that sort of cap on his view of John Watson.

He made to turn around and leave the man in peace when he caught John falter and miss the bag, his whole body collapsing against the cushion and then sliding to the ground. Mycroft was in the room, with the door shut, within a moment. He ran over to the bent man, “John!” Mycroft yelled. But to no avail. John was lost in a mind palace like none that Mycroft of Sherlock had ever entered.  
Mycroft couldn’t help the feeling of utter uselessness as the blank look of pain on John's face. Tears streamed down John’s face with no sound, no heavy breathing, nothing. Mycroft had been reviewing John's medical records for a while now, but when he had read that John had been diagnosed with PTSD, Mycroft had just assumed that Sherlock had taken care of it. But recently, with all the small yet perceptible moments symptomatic of PTSD, Mycroft had been looking closer into the disease. And he was sure that John was experience a relapse.

Mycroft took John in his arms, both of them on their knees, with Mycroft swaying John gently back and forth softly whispering numbers in his ear. “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, You are John Hamish Watson. The year is 2014. You are okay. You are safe. You are here. You are present.” Mycroft kept repeating this over and over, softly, and soothingly; he was not trying to wake John, but more trying to bring him softly from the depths of his own mind.

John slowly came too, the first sensation being pain in his hands. Fierce, strong, blinding pains, shooting up from his knuckles to his elbows. But after he recognized it, he moved on, only to discover that he was being held, that there was a whispering in his ear. A soothing motion, a soothing sound, John breathed in and out with the count of the numbers. Recognizing his name, his time in place, recognizing his surety that all was ok with his immediate world.

“Mycroft…” John muttered, nearly silently. He was sure that Mycroft was an illusion, something that his mind had worked up to calm him. He was sure that when he had said the name, that the mirage would disappear, but it didn’t.

“Mycroft, is that” John paused momentarily. “Is that you?” John asked, keeping his eyes closed. Fear and embarrassment were seeping through his whole being.  
“I’m here, John.” Mycroft whispered in his ear.

John felt a shiver run down his spine. There was an acute awareness of someone, and the feeling of rightness.

“I think I am okay.” John said, slowly. He tested each word as it left his mouth; evaluating the accuracy of the statement as it was being made.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked. He was weary of letting go, not entirely sure that it was a fear of letting go or a fear of never holding him like this again.

“Yes…” John took a deep breath in, holding it, and then letting it go. “Yes, ‘Croft. I am fine.”

“You keep calling me that,” Mycroft whispered in John's ear, “and I will let you in on a secret.” He smiled before leaning infinitesimally closer, “I like it.” Mycroft leaned back, brushing his lips against John's temple. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, remaining on the floor, but taking leave to sit cross-legged.

“I don’t really know.” John said, but felt a right shite, for lying.

“John,” Mycroft started.

“I know.” John cut him off. “It has been a week since we last heard from Moriarty. It’s been almost a fortnight since Mary left. And we are no closer to finding answers than we were before.” John took off his boxing gloves while he was talking and was rewarded with an expletive from Mycroft.

“You need to take better care of yourself! What use to anyone are you, when you are broken?” Mycroft scolded, getting up and walking over to a medicine cabinet beneath a full-length wall mirror. 

“Here, take some aspirin, and here.” Mycroft continued, as he sat back down and took John’s hands gently. He wrapped them tightly in gauze after applying some warming salve to the skin.

“’Croft, I just don’t understand.” John winced a bit at the pressure on his wrist, but didn’t say anything. “Why haven’t we heard anything? And why is Sherlock being so fucking secretive?” John finished the last sentence with a bit more venom that intended. “We both know he is up to something.” John said, daring Mycroft to disagree.

“Yes, he is.” Mycroft agreed, finishing the wrapping of the second hand and putting the kit back together. “The problem is, I can’t trace him for some reason. For all intents and purposes, when he leaves at night, he goes ghost.” Mycroft got up from the floor and put the kit away, coming back he put a hand out to help John up from the floor and took him over to a bench. “I lose him on CCTV, and he always loses the car that is trailing him.” Mycroft sighed, his frustration peeking through a bit. “It’s a damned bitch. I have to take care of the country, the Queen’s business, this Moriarty shite, and Sherlock as well.”

John watched as Mycroft put his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes erratically.

“’Croft.” John said, reaching out and taking one of the elder Holmes’ hands.

“Don’t take all this on, hell, that is half of my problem.” John smiled, and lifted one of Mycroft's hands, kissing the palm while keeping eye contact. “How about this,” he kissed Myc’s hand again, this time on the backs of the fingers, “you talk to me about what is concerning you,” another kiss, farther up the wrist. “And I will keep you up to date on my worries.” Another soft kiss at the inner crevice of the elbow. “It seems like that might be best for both parties.” John smiled, skipping the rest of the arm and leaning forward, kissing the soft expanse of neck just above Mycroft's button up. “And if you get really worried, at night, especially when it’s dark, and quiet,” John licked softly up Mycroft's neck, leaning farther into it, until he was at his ear. “Then you can always come to my room. Seems I have much too large a bed.” John whispered, ending the proposal with a kiss and a gentle bite to Mycroft's earlobe.

“John,” Mycroft shuddered at the bite. “Where, ahh, where did this come from?” Mycroft asked, his eyes closed and face upturned, as John stayed close breathing him in.

“Oh, been a while, it has.” John leaned slightly back, and took Mycroft's bottom lip between his teeth, pulling a bit, then letting go with a pop. “Since you took charge when Sherlock buggered up that whole drug business.” John smiled and bit at Mycroft's lip again, letting it go this time, but dragging his tongue across the length of it. “You sat there, and you brooked no argument. And you tried to tell me off,” John laughed a bit at that, leaning back once more. “But even then, when I was standing firm, you still looked so damned regal. And I just wanted to make your bloody back smack against the wall…” John giggled as he took Mycroft in for a kiss. Deeply, he kissed him, until both of them were lost in the moment.

John pushed at Mycroft until he fell off the bench and onto the rug, but before he could protest, John was after him, knees on both sides of his hips, hands holding down both his arms. “I wanted to make you scream my name, then. How about I try for it now?” John asked teasingly. But before he could follow through, Mycroft's phone buzzed in his pocket.

John watched in agony as Mycroft went through all the possible calculations in his head about whether to answer it or not. “I must, John.” Mycroft muttered. His only saving grace was that John could see his evident arousal, pressed firmly against his own.

He backed off of Mycroft, lying flat on his back, and looking at the ceiling, counting from one to whenever his hard-on would stop throbbing.

“Moriarty.” Mycroft said. He realized the severity of his mistake the moment he answered and didn’t hear the telltale click of a recorded conversation, so common with government-issued phones.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mycroft,” Moriarty laughed. “Or should I call you ‘Croft?”

Mycroft looked at John with anger etched in ever pore of his face. They had done a sweep of the house and found all the bugs. There had not been anyone uninvited or unauthorized in the home since. “How do you keep doing it, Jim?”

“Oh, ‘Crofty, I can't tell you that. How would I get all my fun, if I told you all my secrets?” Mycroft almost threw his phone, but refrained.

“What are your demands this go ‘round? I think you’ve made us wait plenty long enough.” Mycroft gritted his teeth, trying to remember to breathe, the last thing he needed was a heart attack right now.

“Oh, well see I think my ‘demands’ as you call them, are rather simple. But I can’t be laying out my hand just yet-“  
Mycroft's eyes went wide, a look of utter annoyance and some fear creeping in.

“Mycroft, what is it?” John asked, worriedly.

“Yeah, Crofty, why don’t you put your phone on speaker? I think dear Johnny should hear this, too. Don’t you?” Moriarty asked, a sneer very evident in his tone.

Mycroft looked at John, putting his head to the side in a way that denotes sadness. And then he put the phone on speaker for John to hear.

A baby was crying in the background. Loudly, the wails so fierce and angry that it effected even Mycroft's hardened heart. John clenched his hands, and let out a strangled sob. Even knowing it wasn’t his child, it was terrifying knowing that the babe was in Moriarty’s hands.

“Oh, Johnny. Don’t cry. I would never hurt the baby. But see, here is the problem.” Jim’s voice got angry. “I am just sick of you. I am utterly done with your presence in my life. You thought you won, when I was dead and Sherly came back to life? And you thought you could have a perfect life with Mary and Sherly and the babe? Seems to me, that you are due for a wake-up. And you know what?” Jim asked, menacingly. “I cannot wait to be the one to give it to you. I can't wait to peel the very skin from your body.“ Mycroft had heard enough. He hung up. There was no reason for John to be forced to listen to the hatred spilling from the man's mouth. There was no reason to add to John's fears.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________   
Sherlock was lying in the grass behind the house. He had a smoke in one hand, one in his mouth, and a pack with used and unused faggots in his other hand. He was going through all of the singular possibilities for Jim to come out of the woodwork. He had gone through any and all political meetings coming up and had looked at any major political figures coming to England. He had checked for any major changes to the Underground. He had looked for any major player changes in the stocks and bonds community of upper England. And nothing, not a damned thing, stood out. So Sherlock had sat back and just smoked. He filled his lungs with tobacco as he inhaled the sweet taste of Indian dark and citrus flavor.

“I thought you had stopped smoking?” John asked from the deck.

“Well, yes. But then Jim came back. I figured if I am going to die, I might as well enjoy a good smoke.” Sherlock responded rather dramatically, just as he knew John would expect.

“Always the Drama Queen.” John sat down next to Sherlock. He reached out and took the lit smoke from Sherlock’s mouth, and crushed it in the grass. “Look, we need to talk.”

“About what?” Sherlock asked. Inwardly smiling at the act of dominance that John had just displayed.

“About a phone call I just got.” John continued, telling Sherlock about the call.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________   
Jim stood in front of a bank of television screens. He had CCTV feeds from all over London, as well as micro feeds set up for display. He watched with ill hidden glee, at Mycroft calling in the hounds to do another search of his flat. Little did he know that Jim had an informant in the team that would come to sweep the house. It’s the little things that those Holmes boys missed.  
The baby was crying again. And it was getting so very clearly on his nerves. He wanted to strangle the child. To quiet the damned thing forever, but he had a plan. He breathed in and out, reveling in his joyous plan. John wouldn’t know what to do. His baby was about to be a bargaining chip in a game that John surely wasn’t prepared to play.

Jim walked out of the video room and down to the hanger bay where Mary was lying in bed, trying to get the newborn to eat. Her breasts were a swollen atrocity. He fought against the roiling in his stomach at the sight of her, having seen what her stretched out skin looked like post child. He was thoroughly awaiting the moment when he was able to get her out of there and be done with little domestic situation.

“When will he shut up?” Jim demanded, rather severely.

“When he is tired.” Mary replied, easily. She was so clearly in love. It was disturbing all the more.

“Stop acting like you care for the child, Mary.” Jim said. Looking into a mirror and adjusting his Westwood, he sniped, “we both know that the damned beast was an accident. You will be relieved of your motherly duties soon enough. You would do well to not grow too fond of the beasty.” Jim cracked his neck, once to the left and once to the right, before he turned around.

“You are wrong on one point, my Darling.” Mary said, having just gotten the little infant to latch on to her breast.

“Oh, and what is that? Please enlighten me.” Jim leaned back against the wardrobe.

“This isn’t John’s babe.” Mary said, a slight Irish lilt coming out.

“Funny, my darling!” Jim said with a laugh.

“I am not joking, Jim.” Mary responded crisply.

“Excuse me?” Jim bolted upright. Hands clenched at his sides. “Then whose bloody beast, is it?”

“Sebastian's.” Mary said, not looking up and not daring to glance Jim;s way. She had a gun in her bedside table, one that the wet nurse had provided for her. But she was loath to use it in front of   
the babe.

“You. Have. Got. To. Be. Fucking. Kidding. Me!” Jim roared. The hanger echoed with his rage. “How dare you, you filthy, whore?” Jim grasped the wardrobe and pushed it hard, watching with a wrathful gaze as it toppled over, its 400 year old wood cracking and splintering on the concrete.

“You have no idea what it was like when you left me, Jim.” Mary said, hiding her tears valiantly. “Sebastian, he understood.” She looked up finally. “He bedded me, and then he left. He had this rage in him, this pain. I had never seen anything so tragic.” Mary lost the battle with her tears. “He was destroyed when you left. It was as if he thought you had actually died.” Her voice cracked.

“You dumb, insolent, bitch. That is because to him, I had died. I never wanted him to know that I was still alive. It would have ruined my delicate plan.”  
Mary paled.

“You,” Jim paused. His hand outstretched. “You fucking told him I was alive? You traitorous wench.” Jim ran forward. Lunging across the bed, laying a hand on Mary’s neck, with the baby still suckling on her breast.

“I will kill you, you filthy, stupid bitch.” Jim screamed, his face aglow with rage.

“Not if I kill you first.” Jim's eyes instantly closed followed immediately with them widening with the shock of knowledge.

“Get your hands off of her, now, James.” Sebastian said, gun held in military style, pointed directly at Jim’s heart. “Seems you and I, we have a bit to talk about, don’t we?” Sebastian motioned for Jim to get off the bed, cocking his gun with menace.

“Mary, my dove. Are you alright?” Sebastian asked. His blond hair and pale eyes showed vengeance and anger, but when pointed at her, they softened with devotion. His babe laid sweetly at her breast.

“Yes, Sebastian. But please. Just be good. Jim just needs to understand.” She implored, silently thanking God for Sebastian’s arrival.

“Yes, why don’t you explain, your ‘situation’, Sebastian?” Jim said, this time fixing actual issues with his newly wrinkled Westwood.

“Here is the thing, Jim.” Mary said, starting out with the explanations. “To Sherlock and John, Sebastian’s name is David.” She smiled, a little maniacal herself.

“It’s a rather brilliant tale, if I do say so myself.” Sebastian said, his smile showing a hint of the craziness that was hidden just under the façade.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what does this mean for John? And oooh what is the issue between Sebastian and Jim??? And finally some sizzle and spark between John and Mycroft. And really, could Moriarty get more deranged? 
> 
>  
> 
> If there are other triggers that I didn't properly warn about, please leave a comment in the section below.


	6. Do I Hear a Rumble?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things finally get somewhere between John and Mycroft, but all isn't well elsewhere.
> 
> Oh, Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT SMUT SMUT  
> There really shouldn't be any triggers this chapter, just good ole smut and plot?  
> If you find something that could be a trigger, please let me know and I will make sure to edit.

Chapter 6  
Do I Hear a Rumble?

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. He hadn’t quite lost the car that Mycroft had tailing him, but he wasn’t overly concerned. He would lose the tail in the next four minutes, when he went around the bend and through a garden.  
His mind was a blur of facts and factoids, little statistics, of car drivers, accidents, running, distances, and escape. He saw the figure he sought in the distance, only 50 meters or so, but he was quietly relieved.  
“Victor.” Sherlock said, when he had reached the shadow. “Do you have what I requested?” he asked, putting his hand out, and trying not to notice the sexual tension between the two of them. He had been so needy that night, the night John had come to 221B. He had been trying so hard to relieve some stress, and he hadn’t been able to since. Now just being in the proximity of Victor was throwing his libido for a loop.  
“I do, but Sherlock,” Victor said, holding firmly to the object in his hand. “You can’t be serious. To go in there, alone. To take this?” he looked Sherlock in the eye, pulling him by his jacket lapels. “What if you don’t get out in time?” he leaned forward, brushing a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I know you don’t want to hear this, I am sorry. But I am concerned.”  
He handed over the device, a small, portable, electromagnetic bomb. It would short circuit all of the technical equipment in a building, leveling all the information in the facility as well as sending out a wave of information to any and all officials in the MI6 as well as the Yard and Sherlock's own personal drive.  
“Don’t worry yourself.” Sherlock said, palming the device, thumb gently caressing the metal. “I won't die, simply because” he stopped, putting his hand up and grabbing Victors hair, roughly pulling the man closer, “I need to fuck you. I need to show you that you wont get away with talking back to me. You’re so fucking needy for this cock, and I’m in a mood to give it to you.” Sherlock licked Vic’s ear, from the lobe to the tip. “Meet me at Diogenes. Two hours. If I do not show, then go directly to Mycroft's. But when I do show…” he leaned forward, whispering into Victor's ear, knowing that his hot breath heightened the man's need, “be prepared to be fucked so hard, you scream.” He bit Victor's ear, and then let go, quickly moving away and sinking into the shadows. He left the man a shaking, needy mass.

John woke in the early hours of the morning. He had passed out a little after midnight, after quietly saying goodnight to Mycroft. He sighed, and lifted his hand to his forehead, trying to grasp the oddity and the reality of everything happening in his life.  
He couldn’t deny that things had taken an unmistakable turn for the odd. Sherlock being alive, Mary and Jim's relationship, his baby's questionable paternity, Mycroft being—John stopped. What was Mycroft? Was he interested? Shit, John wasn’t even sure if he was interested. He let his mind wander to their time in the gym that morning, and he thought about what almost happened. Had Mycroft really wanted it? Had he? He smiled, noticing the blood rushing to his cock. It was a simple pleasure, feeling it swell and lengthen. He took his other hand and rubbed against it, thrusting his hips softly against his hand, taking his thumb and ring finger and sliding them down the sides of his penis. A small barely audible gasp escaped his lips.  
His mouth curved in a very predatory way. He wanted Mycroft, of that he was sure, and he wanted him now. Tonight.  
He got out of bed, readjusting himself so that he wouldn’t alarm anyone should he have a surprise run-in while looking for Croft. He left his room, a condom slipped into his pyjamas pocket, and a smile playing dangerously on his lips. He was in the mood for viscous, delicious, and carnal love making. He walked down the hall, taking into account the toilet that he had used the other morning, and where the door had been inside it, to gauge where Mycroft’s room was. Once he found it, he pushed on the door, finding it locked. He stopped, going to the loo and slipping into Mycroft's bedroom through the adjoining door.  
He found Mycroft lying on his massive four poster bed, his room decorated in dark tones and rich mahogany. He could smell Cyprus and juniper - a man’s smells. It flirted with his senses, driving him mad, on the brink with lust, he was pushed over.  
“Why are you staring at me?” Mycroft asked, in a bored tone from the bed. “If you entered my room, at this God forsaken hour, then one would presume you would be here to do me in.” he sounded so insolent. So bored. “Please, do, or leave me to sleep.”  
“Oh, Croft.” John said, his voice a low rumble. “I do want to do you in, but not in the way you are so insinuating.” John moved forward, his body almost predatory in its movement.  
“John, what is it…-“ Mycroft sat forward, taking in John’s silhouette against the moon in the balcony glass. “You are aroused, then?” he asked, unable to hide the surprise from his voice.  
“Oh, very much so.” John said, finally reaching the end of the bed, taking a moment to bask in the sight of Mycroft. He was shirtless, which was a shock to the senses, as John had assumed the man dressed in complete pyjamas. He devoured the sight of Mycroft’s chest, from his neck to his abdomen where the sheets pooled enticingly. “You do look very delicious.” He stated before climbing atop the bed and moving in on Mycroft.  
“John, I—“ Mycroft started, his voice barely masking the nerves. “I am not prepared.” He said, just before John’s mouth covered his. John was lost in need, in a desire so fierce that he felt it would devour his body and soul.  
“Don’t worry, Croft, I am.” He fished out his condom, and slipped it on the table. “But for now, how about I just luxuriate in your body and mouth?” he whispered against Mycroft's mouth.

Sherlock waited patiently. He was a man known to wait out a rabbit, when chasing larger prey. And his patience was rewarded handsomely.  
Mary walked out of the warehouse a little after 11 pm. She had two assignments to get through and needed to be back before Dean woke for his 2 am feeding. She had her gun and her suitcase. The suitcase fitted to blow, should anyone be foolish enough to steal it. But she was unconcerned. Such things wouldn’t happen, at least not this early in the game.  
She walked to the side street, finding her Rolls Royce sitting prettily just where Seb had told her it would be. It purred when she pushed the ignition button. Her smile was carnal at the feeling of vibration in her body. She took out her mirror and touched up her lipstick; it wouldn’t do to meet the ambassador of Russia with any flaws.

Sherlock followed the Rolls on foot, ducking and diving, keeping light-footed, and never losing sight of the vehicle for more than a few seconds. He was becoming concerned he would have to give up chase when the vehicle pulled over into a parking garage just outside of Kensington station.  
He structured his breathing until it was normal and consistent. Taking out his phone, he took down the information on the car and sent it to Victor to start to sludge through the technical aspects.  
He slid his phone back into his pocket, and walked into the station. Slipping past the guarded barstands that had card readers, he found an abandoned newspaper to hide his face behind on a bench across from the 24 Café. He slid his phone out, placing it between his hand and the paper, camera facing outward, to record the meeting.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
John slid his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, smiling at the silky smooth sensation against his fingers. He leaned forward and was rewarded with the long expanse of neck that Mycroft offered up voluntarily. “Oh, so ready aren’t we, my dear?” he murmured against Croft’s skin before softly running his teeth down his jugular, feeling the heart beat, strong and fast. He kissed then, just when he was sure Mycroft would want it. And he was oh so right.  
The man’s heart skipped two beats, restarting with a shuddered breath.  
“Oh, Watson…” Mycroft moaned into the darkened room.  
“Oh really Croft? Is that what you wish to call me, when I am about to enjoy that gorgeous body?” John smiled deviously as he ran his hand down Mycroft body, pushing the blanket and sheet down as well.  
“Watson, I will call you whatever I wish.” Mycroft said, moving swiftly to grasp John’s head, pulling it back and licking the full expanse of throat at his disposal. “You come into my room. You wish to have your way with my body. And yet, you question what I chose to call you, in the throws of need?” Each sentence uttered, corresponded with a sharp movement. A hand place here, a knee touching just there, lips kissing here, a foot moving there. Mycroft aggressively slid his hand up John's scalp, grasping it tightly. “Oh Watson, what am I going to do to you?” Mycroft shot up easily, pushing John back against one of the posts at the end of the bed. His smile was a mix of feral desire and amused snark.  
“Stay just where you are, John. Don’t move, or you might regret it.” Mycroft said, as he slipped from the bed. A deep chuckle resonated as he walked to the adjoining wardrobe. John watched the naked man move gracefully across the Parisian carpet, his proud cock and succulent arse on display.  
John stayed where he was, his heart pounding with a mix of need and confusion. He wanted Mycroft. But he had come in here on his own terms. His initial reaction to Mycroft taking charge was fear, and then concern. Yet what confused John, what put the skip in his heartbeat, was that right now, in this moment, he was more aroused than he’d ever been. His cock ached with it, a groan slipping from his mouth before he realized it.  
“Oh, Watson… so needy are we?” Mycroft murmured as he picked up a box and turned around. His eyes and the contours of his face were visible in the moonlight streaming in the French doors and John was utterly mesmerized. This man, this minor government official, this brother of his best friend, this ginger god, was looking at him as if he was going to eat him alive. And John found that he couldn’t want it more if he tried.   
Mycroft pulled a pair of handcuffs from the box, and not the fluffy sex toy kind. Rather, they were the official NSY cuffs. He gently set the box aside on the table and smiled at John.  
“John, my dear. Be a doll and scoot your bum up to the head of the bed please.” Mycroft unlatched the cuffs, the confinements springing open with a soft click.  
John did as he was instructed, moving up the bed in a smooth manner. On all fours, he crawled from the base of the bed to the head of it, his arse up in the air on display the entire time.  
“Oh, you are so damned sexy, Watson.” Mycroft growled. He put a knee up on the bed and pulled John’s hands up above his head, cuffing them around the horizontal beam that connected from post to post. “See, I’ve let you believe that I was not a dominant figure in the bedroom, John. But that just clearly cannot continue.” Mycroft moved to get completely on the bed, straddling John but not reaching out to touch him.  
“But see, here is what I want.” His put a hand up, holding it out, almost touching John’s cock, but not quite. He was eagerly rewarded with a twitch.  
“Ah, and I see you want it as well.” He laughed, a deep throaty laugh that singed John's skin.  
“Croft, pleas—“ John started but was stopped by Mycroft’s hand grabbing his throat swiftly.  
“I didn’t give you permission to speak. Don’t fear, my dear. I will pleasure you so very thoroughly tonight.” His harshness was softened by the kiss he laid on John’s cheek. “I want you so very badly, John Watson. Do you want me?” Mycroft asked, a teasing lilt, in his voice.  
“Oh, God yes.”  
“Good. Then let’s begin.”

Sherlock watched as Mary met with a Russian gentleman. He didn’t focus overly much on the conversation, as his device was picking up all of it. Rather, he focused on the goings on around him. There was a small amount of civilian traffic around him, enough to cover him. He pulled out a stand, clipping both sides of the paper open and rested on his crotch. His phone clipped magnetically to the metal.  
He pulled out a beard and a golf cap from his numerous hidden pockets and applied his simple disguise. He knew that his coat would draw Mary’s attention faster than anything else, and he was loathe to get rid of it, but the needs outweighed the desires. He slipped his coat off, folding it rather neatly and slipped it into the parcel bag he had brought in. He would make to carry it, but if it buggered up the motion, he could rid himself of it easily enough.  
He returned to watching Mary’s meeting and caught the small box being shifted from him to her, underneath the table. The movement was so smooth he scarcely noticed it. But having just looked up, the slight movement caught him off-guard and his eyes were drawn to the action. He smiled. Though he wouldn’t tell a soul, sometimes luck really did come into play with his deductions.  
His attention was abruptly drawn back to the meeting at hand when Mary scooted her chair back and made to get up. The Russian man said a few parting words and then rose from his seat and left.  
Mary was adjusting her outfit in ways that women do. Sherlock fixed his stand, sliding it back together and into his trouser pocket, pocketing his phone and moving to get up as Mary walked down the terminal. He walked around the lockers, and almost ran to the end of them, before rounding the edge and doubling back. She was about 10 yards ahead. He slipped out the metal box and sneezed. Bumping into her, almost pushing her to the floor, but grabbing for her just at the last minute, he slipped the emitter into her purse.  
“Mah, ‘polgies, madam.” He mumbled in a broken French accent.  
“Yes, yes… whatever. Do move on, sir. I’ve no time for this.” Mary said sternly, not sparing him a glance, bitterly frustrated at the inconvenience of being damn near tumbled to the ground.  
“Yes, madam, sorry, madam.” Sherlock said once more, before scuttling off back to the wait area. A smile played on his lips, and he decided to keep the disguise for now. He picked up his parcel bag, turning around and heading out. Looks like he’d make it Diogenes sooner than expected.

Mycroft had slid John's cock out of its fabric confines and was so very pleased with the sight. He had expected the soldier's cock to be a bit bigger in girth. After all, he’d noted his gait since meeting the man. But the actual length was far more astonishing. He moved his arm to brush against it, not stopping but notating that from base to tip, it went from wrist to about 8 inches up it. His desire a fluid heat settling deep in his belly.  
“How about I pleasure the good soldier?” he asked, already leaning down to take John into his mouth. The first taste was almost bitter, but the second taste, the more telling one, was salt. It was his version of a midnight caramel bar. He dragged his tongue from the base of the cock to the tip, cupping his teeth behind his lips, and going down, taking it deeply into his throat before bringing his head back up. His whole body relished the needy groan that erupted from John. He moved one of his hands up, sliding a finger into John’s mouth, glad he didn’t have to direct John on what to do. He made to move again onto that delicious cock when a sharp set of raps happened at the door.  
“Do not disturb me.” Mycroft said, authority ringing in his voice.  
“Sir, I am sorry to wake you. There has been an explosion at Diogenes.”  
Mycroft bolted up from the bed, making it to the door across the room in record time. He threw it open, revealing himself to the fool on the other side.  
“Explain yourself this instant.” Mycroft demanded, his voice brooking no question.  
“At 2:01 am this morning, there was an explosion that rocked the left quadrant of the Diogenes Club. There were 7 rooms affected, including those that were currently in use by your brother and his lover. At 2:14 am this morning, they were escorted by HEMS to the hospital. The fire was out at the building by 2:27 am, and the damage is estimated at around 17,ooo pounds. A detective Gregory Lestrade from NYS called four minutes ago, relating that information, as well as saying that your brother and his lover sustained minimal injuries. A broken arm on the gentleman, and a four broken fingers on Sherlock Holmes, sir.” The man at the door related with ease, as if he made a habit of practicing relating facts in the mirror in the morning.  
“Bring around my car. I will be leaving in ten minutes. We are to head for Diogenes immediately. Get a second car as well. I will wake John Watson and make him aware of the events that have occurred. His vehicle will go directly to whatever hospital Sherlock is in.” Mycroft stated, “Have I made myself clear? Now move!” he shouted, slamming the door.  
John was in shock, he had heard everything. But the final straw that brought him back into the present was the loss of composure from the man in front of him.  
“Mycroft, undo the cuffs. Now, please.” John asked.  
“Yes, of course.” Mycroft moved to the bed. He unlocked the cuffs as requested, but before John could make to move from the bed Mycroft firmly but gently grabbed John’s wrists. “They may be irritated or raw for a bit. Try to elevate them as much as you can.” Mycroft sighed. “I want you to know that I generally take care of my lover's needs, even after the love making.” Mycroft shook his head, and turned. He headed to the closet and disappeared into its depths.  
“I need to get dressed, Mycroft. But, don’t take this moment as lost.” John stood up, moving to the closet, finding Mycroft standing in the middle of a room full of suits and clothing. “We will finish this.” John said, wrapping his arms around Mycroft, pulling him close, and kissing his lush mouth. He tried to relay the need he felt, even in the short moment they had.  
Their lips parted, and he winked at Mycroft. He left to get dressed so he could get to the hospital before Sherlock decided to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so freaking long for me. I have been so very busy. Next chapter shouldn't be very far. <3 Love all of y'all and hope you enjoyed this one :)


	7. On These Wicked Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh No~ what could go wrong? Well, when Sherlock is taking on the World, often times, a lot. However, it seems that a little communication would be good for the lot of them. Hope you like my story so far :)  
> Triggers: explosions / hospital / one autism reference.

Chapter 7  
On These Wicked Wings

 

Sherlock had taken to counting the steps of the nurses as they entered and left his room, tapping with his fingers on the bedside grate that held him captive. He had already annoyed many a personnel at the Hospital this evening, but truth be told he was weary to the bone, and just wanted to talk to John and be home. But. logically. he knew that 221B wouldn’t be home, at least for some time yet.  
He heard the cadence of John’s footsteps before he saw him. He had been waiting for his Doctor to arrive, but was wholly unprepared for what he saw.  
“Been in bed with my brother?” Sherlock asked, taking John aback.  
“And how would you know that, then?” He didn’t deny it, just was curious to see what he had missed.  
“Your hair, more rumpled on the right side than on the left, per your usual sleeping habits, which denotes sexual activity or at least the sharing of a bed with a partner. Your shoulder has a bite or scratch mark, just on the underside of the shirt, and your wrists have chaffing. The combination suggests either a stay at the local precinct, or more likely, since I hadn’t heard of you getting arrested, that you’ve been sharing a Dom’s bed. Since Mycroft seems to be the only Dominant in your vicinity as of recently, then it was only logical to assume it was he you were with.”  
“Well, right, I ah—“ John lifted his hand up, in his classic move of deflection. “Right, sorry about that, then?” He asked, unsure of his footing.  
“Are we really going to waste time on this subject? Or are you going to release me from the prison, so that I can work on this case?” Sherlock demanded, his tone matching his gestures; short and sharp.  
“Yes, right.” John turned and left the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.  
Mycroft what have you done this time? Why John? Could you not have found another person to flay apart at your behest? Could you not have spared my one and only friend?  
Flashbacks of other times this had happened, in many a variety, flashed in Sherlock's mind. Only to have him squint them away. “You will not hurt him.”

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft walked up to the Diogenes Club. He was more than a little perturbed that his fruitful evening had been interrupted, and was disappointed that it seemed to be a pattern that he was uncomfortably aware of when he was with John. He didn’t overtly smile, for that would have created chaos, which was something that he was loath to see; but he did inwardly smile at the thought of John, cuffed to his bed, at his mercy…  
He paused the thought process, determined to continue it at a later moment. Preferably with John there to finish their activities that were currently no closer to happening.

“Facts, now.” He stated to the portly looking Detective that was standing at the door to the club.  
“And just who might you be?” the portly Detective said with a bit of annoyance.  
“Mycroft Holmes, owner of this property as well as the man that can have you put on desk duty for the next millennium. Now report information, with no further delay.”  
“Right, well,” the detective went through all the debris and explained everything they had found already, which, to Mycroft, was not surprisingly, little. His heavy sigh was word enough for the DI to leave his presence.

The building had four entry points, two of which were constantly guarded by security. The third was for emergencies and had an alarm attached, and the fourth was the kitchen door to the alley way. There was damage in seven rooms, with smoke damage to all of the left quadrant. Not to mention all of the damage to his clientele and the Club's reputation that he would have to repair. His business was one of privacy did not generally involve the police. Members generally frequented his club to pursue activities that may be deemed "sexually deviant" by the mainstream.  
He could feel the beginnings of a headache. He really hadn’t gotten any sleep last night, and would be expected at the office no later than 9 am. Leaving, he looked at his watch, four hours, to get the club into some semblance of order, before doing resuming governmental duties.

“That bad?” John asked, handing him a cuppa.

“When did you get here?” Mycroft asked, mildly startled at his lack of awareness of his surroundings for a moment.

“Just a moment ago. Sherlock is off looking at the bomb; he mumbled something about knowing who did it.” John said, sipping his tea, looking at Mycroft with concern.

“I’ve got some acetaminophen in my medical bag, if you want me to get you some? And you might do to sit for a moment.” He lifted his hand and laid it gently on Mycroft’s upper arm. Feeling the tension that emitted from the elder Holmes’ body, he sighed, “Mycroft, it will all work out.”

“Yes, John. I am aware. It’s more a matter that I even have to deal with this nonsense at all. To be honest, I hadn’t expected this to even happen. Though I am not altogether surprised that it has, either."

“What are you—you mean Moriarty?” John sighed, taking his forefinger and thumb and rubbing them against his eyes. “You’re right, I guess this was too soon. But he doesn’t really play by anyone's rules, now does he?” John smirked, his sarcasm laden with self-loathing. “He got away. How does that even happen, Mycroft?”

“If I knew that, John, don’t you think I would have taken care of it by now?” Mycroft's demeanor was enough to put John a step back. He was right after all, it wasn’t as if we had a play book to go by with Jim.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean—you know I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Yes, John. I know. Go find Sherlock. Figure out what he knows. I have a feeling he knows more than he is letting on.”  
John watched as Mycroft walked away, shoulders stiff, back straight. He was undeniably attracted to the man, but he was also a bit fearful of all that he could, and would, do for Queen and Country.

John started down the hallway, taking in all the elegance and opulence, a little put off by what this place so obviously was, and also a bit intruiged that Mycroft owned this place and knew all of its secrets. He came up to the edge of the ground zero and eyed Sherlock, crawling over a blown apart couch.

“Sherlock, you mind?” John said, gesturing to the guard that wouldn’t let him through.

“Imbecile, he is with me, let him pass.”

“Thank you, eh, sorry for the—yeah yeah…” John started, but stopped when the detective looked away.

“What have you found? Anything worthwhile?”

“Yes, and no.” Sherlock muttered, his face deep under the workings of the couch.  
John walked around the room, noticing immediately that this must have been where Sherlock had been when the bomb went off. His heart, stuttered a moment, as he realized that he had almost lost Sherlock, once again.

“Sherlock, was this an attempt on you?”

“What?” Sherlock asked. His tone was defensive, his body heavy with offense.

“Well, you were in this room. You were with someone, some unknown. You have been in and out of the house for the past week, not giving me any indication where you've been or what you've been up to—“ John caught himself. He saw in the corner of the room, Sherlock’s Belstaf. Or really, what was left of it. He walked over, ignoring Sherlock’s huffing, and picked up the shredded remains, noticing the entire left side had been blown apart in the explosion.

John remembered the explosion in Afghanistan that had torn his life to shreds; he remembered the body and uniform of the man that had been carrying the bomb. It looked eerily similar to this. “Sherlock.” John took the coat, the shreds falling apart, and whirled around. “What is this?”

“My coat, John. Clearly you kn—“

“NO! You will stop this lying. Now!” John threw the coat on the ground, almost as if he was loathe to touch it. His body was showing all signs of aggression and his stance was full of frustration. “What have you been up too? And just how, did a bomb end up in your coat?!”

“Really, Sherlock. Do tell.” Mycroft said from the doorway to the room.

Sherlock looked back and forth, knowing full well he was trapped within his lie, but still looking for ways to escape from explaining the truth. He took all the options, laid them out in his mind, and ticked them off, one after the other.

“I’ve been keeping surveillance on Mary.”

“Truth, good boy. But try again.” Mycroft said, not willing to be made the fool.

“Damn you! Why can’t you let this be?!” Sherlock spat, knowing that if anyone in the world could see through him and his lies, it would be his elder brother.

“And Jim.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on an assassin with ties to your flatmate, and also to the man that is number one priority to national security, and haven’t shared this information with anyone?” Mycroft smiled, but John and Sherlock could see the anger in his eyes. “Do you understand the position that you routinely put me in, Sherlock? No, hush. You constantly have me put out your fires, and clean up your messes. Sherlock, you will be put on the back burner on this, so help me God, if you do not relay all information that you have.” Mycroft took a breath. “Meet me where the east wind blows, in two hours time.” Mycroft said, leaving the room and John to wonder what coded message, that was, and what it could possible mean for Sherlock, and himself.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock slammed the door to his room in Mycroft's home. His was furious, angry, and he felt vilified, which filled him with his own type of righteous indignation. He was correct! He was in the right! He would have taken care of the whole damned thing, and no one would have been the wiser, and Jim would have finally been dead.

Sherlock paused with his undressing when he heard a knock at the door.  
“Go away.” He growled, angrily. Pulling the buttons on his blouse until the popped and spat across the floor.

“Sherlock, I am not going to just go away.” John's voice, full of agitation grated on Sherlock’s already frayed nerves.

“What do you want to hear, John? That I am sorry, once again?” Sherlock spat out as he flung the door open.

“No, Sherlock. But for Gods sake man! Why does it always come down to this?” John asked, pushing Sherlock to the side, and entering the room without permission.

“I don’t understand your question. Or rather, I understand it, but I do not comprehend your anger.”

“Sherlock, I am your best friend. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is it, that every major decision you’ve made in the last five years, has been without consulting me as your friend, or your associate?”

“I—“ Sherlock started, then stopped. Cutting himself off, for the lack of an actual answer.

“Exactly. That is why I am here. I don’t require an apology for everything that you do. In fact, an apology would be rather unwarranted, since I am aware that what you do, is in fact, for me and the country.” John sat down at the desk. Resting his elbows on his knees, perched there, in calm understanding.

“My question, still stands. You ask me to tag along on your cases, but am I just a puppet to tell you that you are brilliant? And to sit back with the heavy lifting happens?”

“There hasn’t been any heavy lifting.” Sherlock responded.

“Figuratively, Sherlock.”

“Right.” Sherlock looked out of the window, concentration etched into his every feature. He was unaware of the beautiful pose he struck, which once again caught John off guard. He would never deny the beauty of his best friend, and it still confounded him after all of these years, just how handsome the man really was.

“John, when these things happen. I don’t actively dismiss you. At least,” he turned at looked at John. “Not at first. I always think about you. How this will affect you. How can I fix the problem? But in this case as with the last with Moriarty, it is always a matter of urgency, and I don’t even compute a need to drag you along.”

“So that is all I do? Get dragged along, then?”

“No. Yes… no.” Sherlock whirled, his kinetic persona aflaire.

“Sherlock, use your words.” John said, patient as always.

Sherlock sat down on the chair, then stood up again. Always moving, but not saying anything. He walked around the room, in a manner befitting an autistic child. His mouth repeatedly opening to say something, and then closing with an almost resounding snap.  
John sat there for minutes, his body relaxed, his heart rate even. He was more proud of Sherlock for not just refusing to speak about the matter. And it was always a pleasure to watch this man, this master detective, work through his mind palace, to come to the most correct and thorough response.

“John. When you are around, I have trouble thinking. Not always. For instance. When we are helping out the Yard, you are vital for hospitalist information, even Militarial information. But when there is danger afoot, I cannot think, for the worry. I am constantly worried that you are in the cross-hairs. And when I have that concern muddling me up, I cannot process all that needs processing. When Moriarty had the sniper on you, I almost gave up the ploy. Gave up the game. I almost let him win, for fear that no matter what I did, you wouldn’t be protected.” Sherlock walked up to John, unaware of personal boundaries. “You are my companion, John. And my best and only friend.”

“Sherlock.” John stood, the space between them, negligible.

“I am retired military. I am a bit over forty. I am a man who doesn’t lack for intelligence or capabilities.” John reached out, touching Sherlock, and was moved by the stuttering of breath that hitched in Sherlock’s throat. "I am not without merit."

“But I can’t be of use, or of any help, when you keep me in the dark. And you have to understand, that without any information that you come across, I am not only in the dark, but I am also in more danger.” John looked at Sherlock, waiting for eye contact. “When I do not know the plays, when I do not know the movement, the actions, the concerns, then I am at that point a danger, instead of an asset. I promise I am of more use to you, knowledgeable, that I am, not.” 

Sherlock stepped away, easing back into his own bubble of personal space. He turned inward, almost physically. John was mesmerized, seeing when Sherlock went inward was like watching a storm come to life, and then abate.

“Yes, John.” He finally said. Not lacking in emotion. “You, are correct. I cannot make a promise to always inform you of my moves. For sometimes they are happening before I even really mean for them to, but I promise to not keep you in the dark. I understand your utility.”

“Well, it is good to be utilized.”

“Yes, now Moriarty…” And Sherlock spent the next hour regaling John with all of the information that he had gained thus far.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Mary wasn’t satisfied. She was furious. Who the hell did, Sherlock Bloody Holmes think he was? Slipping an EMP into her bag? And hadn’t she been quick? Figuring it all out, and slipping that little home made monstrosity into his plastic bag? But no, Sebastian wasn’t having it.  
‘Couldn’t let Mary out.’  
‘Can’t risk Mary’s life.’  
‘Mary is not to be harmed.’  
‘No, no, no!’

She had strutted to the bathroom, away from the men and their overbearing testosterone filled arrogance, in an area she knew she wouldn’t be followed.  
And she was furious. She had almost let the EMP get by her. But it hadn’t, they hadn’t been affected, but you wouldn’t think so with all the bitching the two of them were doing. Oh no, you’d have thought she’d brought in an IED straight to the Bloody Fucking Mothership. She slammed her first out, shattering the mirror into four massive pieces and watched it fall to the sink and shatter. It calmed her greatly. No one was going to bench her. 

She wasn’t dispensable.

She looking at her nails, and was pleased they hadn’t been messed up with the violent display. She dismissed the blood entirely, primping her hair and straightening her dress, before leaving the loo.

“Oh boys, want to know what the Russian czar wants in trade for his help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a wonderful shout out to my favorite Beta Reader IN THE WORLD :) mfam. She is a Godsend and a wonder. And her turn around time is the best best best. 
> 
> Next chapter hopefully will be coming out around Wednesday, if I can buckle down and get to it. But I have a lot of BIG things happening in my life, in the very immediate future, so there might be some down time. 
> 
> Also: I've been taking a bunch of Mycroft-ian cues from @marksgatiss / @xmycroft over on tumblr. The blogger is an amazing person and a wonderful RPer who inspires me with Mycroft and Johncroft lust.
> 
> But who knows, it seems Sherlock isn't going down without some sort of a -- something. <3
> 
> Love you all bunches!!


End file.
